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with avarice? It was one of those contradictions in his character, which I could never understand, and which must have beena riddle to himself. Sir, it must have been born in him—an innate quality— a genius for avarice; and all his brilliant exterior, which pleased the popular eye, like the wretched finery and foppery of a May-day sweep, only disguised but did not conceal the dirt and degradation underneath. He confessed to me that he felt the first gripings of that heart-hardening vice coming upon him at that time, while still whirling round in the vortex of fashion. His fingers began to clutch closer, and his whole hand held faster what it held. As if fortune had become disgusted with his growing meanness, she sent him a thumping legacy of thirty thousand pounds, the hard scrapings of a miserly relation—it ran in the blood of the Simpsons, sir. One would have thought that this sudden accession would have confirmed him in his sordidness—it had an effect directly the reverse! Off he went again on the old road to ruin, with a renewed speed, gained from loitering so leisurely along it as he had lately done. Open house—card tables and faro banks—wine, women, and assemblies— routs, Ranelagh, Pump-room, sedans here, and coaches there—flirtations with Lady A., an alderman's young widow, and the lovely Miss B.—and follies of all sorts, which were nothing if notexpensive, made his thirty thousand pounds fly thirty thousand ways; and in three years Jack stood with his hands in two empty pockets—his good constitution gone with his gold, forsaken of his frivolous friends, his flirtation with Lady A. off, as the phrase is, and his calculations of the money and matrimonial inclinations of Miss B. wrong in the items, and the whole bill disputed. But a well selected vice never leaves its victim—it is sometimes more faithful than a virtue, and sticks, where it has once fastened, tenaciously to the last. Though run out of ready money, Jack was above want. His estate was even now a clear thousand a year,—quite enough to begin with when you intend to be pennyless all the rest of your life. He was seen no more in his old haunts: and Fashion lost one of her favourite fools. He disappeared, and no one knew when or where. He was known to be alive, for his rents were punctually demanded—but not by him, and his agent kept his secret. Seven years passed away, and he was almost forgotten, when suddenly he re-appeared,—grey, pinched, miserable, stooping, and unnaturally old—the very phantom of avarice. The generous few pitied him, the unfeeling many laughed at him, the perplexed thought he was deranged, and the positive said he was. It might Derhaps amuse you to relate some instances of his sordid passion; but there is more melancholy than mirth in looking at human nature at a discount, and I would rather forget them. In - Lrief, 6ir, he ended by starving himself to death through fear of want; a good estate and forty thousand pounds in funded money fell into the coflers of the crown, in lack of an heir-at-law; and the only pleasant fact connected with the memory of Jack Simpson is this waggish remark on his begrudging habits, by one who knew him well, —that if he had been born with four legs, he would have run about on three to save one!"

The old gentleman smiled good-humouredly over this portion of his reminiscence; Prince,—who must have heard the story before, for he walked to the door as soon as "legs" were mentioned,— stood ready and willing to start; his master bowed, said I was a good listener, a great accomplishment, and bade me good morning.



Bless'd tenement, on which are spent
The dark and silent hours of timu ,

Who many a time and oft hast lent
Repose to this sick heart of mine:Accept the tribute of my lays !—
A poet's only gift is praise.

To thy soft breast fatigue may fly,

And sickness, ennui, and grief,—
And aching head, and drowsy eye,
In thee can find a sweet relief:
The rich and poor, the young and old,
Alike are fain to seek thy fold.

Husband of sleep, and downy chain

That links dull night with joyous day— That bears us through the gloomy reign
Of midnight to the sun's bright sway— And makes the dark and dreary hours The sweetest in this life of ours.

This world—this noisy world—hath still
A balm for its distractions nere—

A quiet spot, whereon, at will,

We rest the burdens that we bear,

And calm our feelings, harsh and rude,

In thee, soft twin of Solitude I

Knit to the sordid things of day—
Busied in fleeting phantoms :—here Crouching for wealth, like beasts for prey,
Submitting to the great man's sneer— There, following objects low and vain, With eager, selfish, grovelling aim ;—

O God! how truly cursed my life,

How abject, wretched would it be, If this heart-withering scene of strife
Were but to last continually !— If nought of rest—of quiet nought— Were mingled with the bitter draught!My bed! my bed! to thee I steal,

Thou simple, unpretending spot-
Where men their greatest pleasures feel, Or where their sorrows are forgot.
Thou art the fane where all do fly—
"lu Uioe we're born, in thee we die!"


Ye beautiful and bright

Lamps of the regal night,
That wreathe with light the shadowy vault (m high,

What wake ye in the soul,

As on your course ye roll,
In the gay midnight of a summer sky?

Ye wake in fitful gleams,

Beneath your trembling beams,
Far through the gloom of interposing years,—

The hopes of other days— Affection's dawning rays,
That shone ere youth's bright sky was dewed with tears

Each wild imagining

That faded with life's spring— Bright dreams, that never knew reality,

And vows of early love,

Whispered in moonlit grove
When trembling lips were breathing sweet reply.

And evenings when we strayed
By brook and forest-glade,
With those we ne'er may meet on earth again;

And hours of vanish'd mirth,

When feelings had their birth,
Which our fond hearts have cherished—all in vain.

And each awakening thought,
From memory's labyrinth brought,

Yields to the heart a rapture all its own-
Soft as the breath of flowers,
In summer's sunniest hours,

And soothing as the flute's low plaintive toni'.

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It was one of those wet, disagreeable days which precede the breaking up of winter in northern countries, that I entered Berlin. In order to see this capital from the distance, I slept at the last relay, to arrive by daylight. I might have saved myself that trouble, for the rain fell in torrents, the day was close, cloudy, and disagreeable, and we splashed through the half-thawed streets to the dismay of some fair maidens of that elegant capital, and the no small amusement of the gentlemen at the windows, who, having begun a fourteenth pipe, were only roused from their torpid state by the infernal noise of the postillion's horn.

I had been recommended to Jagor's, a restaurateur on the Linden, a comfortable abode for single men, where dinner can be had a la minute, and every luxury of life within reach, and within doors. The Lord protect the traveller who confides his body to the care of the landlord of the Stadt Rome! Never was there, for a great inn, in a great capital, such a vile, dirty, stinking abode, where it requires more interest to get a dinner for which you pay roundly, than in other countries to get a dinner for which you are not required to pay at all. Our windows at Jagor's overlooked the splended line of trees commencing from the private palace to the Brandenburg gate: on the summit of the latter, the car of victory is drawn at a jog trot; while in Petersburg, emblematic of the Russian late advances, the horses are at a full gallop, and guided by the emperor. It is a splendid street (if street it can be called), the Linden; the long line of the Frederic and the Charlotten Strasse crossing it at right angles, the chateau, opera, palace, academy of arts and sciences, college, and arsenal, rendering it perhaps the finest sight in the whole world; gay, animated, and lively, the silent sledge, saving the bell, rushing with uncommon rapidity over the snow-covered streets, the driver fantastically dressed, the numbers of officers in their neat uniforms, the apparent content of all classes, made our abode so pleasant, that I inhabited it much longer than I originally intended.

What is a stranger in a foreign land without a lackey de place ?— Nothing. Let his head be one Babylonian jumble of all languages, he still wants the guide to direct his steps; he wants the different arrangement of his sight-seeing days, which can only be procured from one who is intimately acquainted with the locale. Of course I had one, and a good one he was.

It was the carnival time—balls, routs, plays, operas, punch, masquerades, &c. were the nightly amusements; the king and the princes not unfrequently attended the different places, and the former w;is sure to be seen at two, if not three, theatres every night In the grand opera, where the royal box occupied half the tiei, the princeroyal with his wife, and the present queen, with a crowd of starred nobles, were sometimes seen; but the king, that great amateur of scenic amusements, appeared in his military great coat, in a small sidebox, and only known to the foreigners, by the attendant always standing. I confess I like to see a king live amongst his people. I hate the secluded grandeur which throws away hundreds of thousands in private entertainments and nocturnal riot, only seen by a few, or known through a newspaper. It is the public manner in which the king of Prussia lives,—his confidence in his subjects,—his attending early and late to public business and national improvement,—his anxiety for the well-being and justice of his subjects, which makes the eye of a Prussian sparkle with sincere gratification, as he points to a stranger the sovereign and the father of his people.

It was nine o'clock when I entered the theatre; Spontini's opera had given way, for the night, to the mixed merriment of a masquerade. The theatre was boarded over; a brilliant band attended; and I found myself in one moment after entering the house, in the midst of harlequins and columbines, dancing bears, Cossacks, play-actors, monkeys, devils, and angels. I had hardly planted my foot on the public arena, when a harlequin endeavoured to make me active by his wand, and the clown jumped over my head. I came for amusement, intending to remain until eleven, and then walk quietly, cocked hat, domino and all, to Jagor's, and wash the cobwebs from my throat with some excellent marcobrunner, and then to dream of past delights.

I found myself twirling round in a waltz with a Russian bear, and the next moment impelled along by a Spaniard in a gallopade. At last out of the round of riot, I began to view the company. Here and there police officers, in their uniforms, were stationed. If any one forgot what was due to the company, he was marched out in a moment. Here was no roaring, shouting, impertinent questions, or unhandsome remarks: every thing was orderly; and if you chose to dance with a bear, why the bear would dance with you, and his keeper would join and make a third—all was good-humour and liveliness. It was while gazing at the tetotum twirlers that my eye suddenly caught the light eye of a beautifully-formed flower-girl. "Inshallah," said I, for I once lived in Persia, " this must be one of the houris, only the houris, have black eyes, and, no doubt, wings. I looked at the light hair which peeped from beneath the hat—I admired the small waist and delicate frame—and when, by accident no doubt, my eye looked at her feet, I thought I saw all the beautv that

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